


160 East Pearson

by lykxxn



Category: Casualty (TV), Original Work
Genre: (s), (the only good baseball team in chicago), 1980s, Baseball, Chicago (City), Chicago Cubs, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Family Drama, M/M, Secret Relationship, elite, upper class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 08:17:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/lykxxn
Summary: Being the daughter of a lawyer worth half-a-million should be easy. But when your parents divorce, you find out both your mom and your dad are hiding secrets, and two Brit tourists have caught your dad's heart, how can things ever be easy?The summer of 1986 has ensured one thing: life for Michaela Strachan will never be the same again.





	160 East Pearson

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is so centred around OCs that I believe it needs both an introduction and an explanation.
> 
> Firstly, I came up with an OC (that's Michaela Strachan) a while ago, and she was simple: Sam Strachan's step-sister. But the more I thought about her, the more I realised that there was a story that needed to be told, and it wasn't hers. It was her father and Audrey's.
> 
> So this is a story of how two families joined together, told through the eyes of a nine year old, who has to face many changes to her life. This is the way Michaela remembers her childhood, because before I can begin to tell you what's happening to her in Holby, I have to tell you how she got there.

I was almost nine years old when Daddy divorced Mom. I was oblivious to it all, but 1986 was the year everything in my life was about to change. I didn’t know why they were getting divorced—nobody would tell me—but I knew they didn’t like each other anymore, and it made Daddy angry sometimes. He even snapped at me just for talking to Buckley, our butler. The day we left for Chicago was the last day I ever saw Buckley or Mom.

Lincoln—or Link, as I liked to call him—was Daddy’s chauffeur, and he was chatting animatedly about soccer as he packed our suitcases in the trunk. ‘Ya shoulda seen it—it was a han’ball goal, sir, Maradona goal!’

Daddy laughed then. ‘You love your soccer, Lincoln. Was that the Argentina versus England game?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Then he turned to me. ‘Want a Jolly Rancher, li’l lady?’

I beamed. Link always seemed to have some kind of candy in his pockets, no matter when. I loved riding with him because it meant having something to chew or suck on in the car. ‘Yes please!’

Link grinned at me. Beneath his dark sunglasses, I knew were a pair of deep, gentle brown eyes, and he plunged a large dark hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of the candy. ‘Here. Take ‘em all.’

‘Thanks, Mr. Lincoln,’ I replied earnestly, putting the candy in my brown satchel, which had a few things inside to entertain me on the journey, which would last almost two hours.

He winked at me as he opened the door to let me in the back seat, and before Daddy could see, I stuck my tongue out at him. Daddy always said a chauffeur couldn’t be my best friend, but if one could, Link would _definitely_ be my best friend.

He opened the door on the front passenger side and Daddy got in, opening the _Chicago Tribune_ to the front page. I pulled a Jolly Rancher from my satchel and began to suck on the candy as Link readied himself to drive.

‘Oh, Daddy, have you heard this song?’

‘No, honey,’ replied Daddy, not looking up from the newspaper. ‘Is it new?’

‘Uh huh. It’s by Queen—that’s the band Mom likes.’ I buckled in my seatbelt and leaned forward to see what he was reading. ‘Did something happen, Daddy? Are you reading about the game Mr. Lincoln was talking about?’

‘No, honey,’ replied Daddy.

‘Did someone die?’ I asked, and I knew by the startled look in his eye that I’d hit the nail on the head. ‘Who was it, Daddy?’

‘A basketball player,’ he said solemnly. ‘That’s enough of that, honey. Why don’t you read your book?’

I frowned, but sat back and diligently took my book from my satchel. We passed a McDonald’s, and I couldn’t help but stare at it longingly, having always wanted to try a Big Mac, or at least some fries.

It would be at least a year before I got to try one.

We arrived in Chicago at lunchtime, and Daddy said we’d be meeting up with one of his friends from work. Link parked in a restaurant and the host sat us—Daddy and I, that is—at a table with a man and a teenage boy, who was sipping a Coke, and glanced over at me uninterestedly before returning his eyes back to the menu.

‘Hi, James, hi, Scott,’ greeted Daddy, shaking hands with the man.

The teenager looked up to Daddy and smiled politely. ‘Hey, Mr. Strachan.’

‘This is my daughter, Michaela. She’s eight. Michaela, this is my friend, Mr. Shaw.’

‘Hi, Mr. Shaw,’ I addressed the man, who looked younger than Daddy, and was dark-haired and clean-shaven.

‘Hello, Michaela. This is my son, Scott. He’s just turned thirteen.’

Scott looked up and smiled a little at me. ‘Hey. Come sit down. I don’t bite.’

Daddy and Mr. Shaw shared a smile at each other as I sat down opposite Scott. A server approached the table to give us some more menus, and Mr. Shaw ordered a Shirley Temple for me, and Daddy ordered a bottle of red wine.

‘What are you gonna eat?’ asked Scott, looking up from his menu.

I shrugged a little, hoping Daddy wasn’t looking. He didn’t really like when I shrugged, thinking it was impolite, especially at a restaurant like this. ‘I was looking at the burgers, but I don’t think Daddy will let me have those.’

Scott frowned. ‘My dad probably won’t either. I saw a server take one out before, and it looked _amazing_. What about some pasta?’

I turned the menu over, seeing the extensive list of pasta dishes the restaurant had on offer. ‘What’s your favourite pasta? I like anything with tomato sauce in it, but I think arrabiata is the best. It’s a little bit spicy.’

‘I don’t like spicy stuff,’ replied Scott, sipping some of his Coke. ‘I think I’ll have the carbonara.’

Our server put down my Shirley Temple and Daddy and Mr. Shaw’s red wine. ‘Are we ready to order?’ she asked cheerily.

Daddy and Mr. Shaw ordered first, followed by Scott and me.

‘We’re going to take a walk after our meal,’ said Mr. Shaw, ‘so we’ll skip dessert and get some candy whilst we’re out. Does that sound good?’

Scott grinned a little. ‘That sounds great! Thanks, Dad!’

The meal was good, and I learned Scott played baseball outside of school, and was hoping to play for the school team when he started high school at the end of summer. We both supported the Cubs and, since Daddy didn’t usually have time to take me to a game, he promised he’d buy me a cap the next time he went to Wrigley Field.

‘Daddy,’ I asked suddenly, whilst he and Mr. Shaw were splitting the bill, ‘am I going to school here in Chicago?’

Daddy thought about this evenly as he put down a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Maybe. I might get you a tutor, or try and get you in the same elementary school Scott went to. But it’s summer, honey. You don’t need to think about that right now.’

‘OK, Daddy,’ I replied, knowing the answer was what he expected of me.

After the meal was paid for, we walked along the river and I hesitantly offered Scott one of the Jolly Ranchers Link had given me.

‘I love Jolly Ranchers,’ he told me. ‘Thanks, Michaela. Who’d you get these off?’

‘Mr. Lincoln,’ I replied proudly. ‘He’s our chauffeur.’

‘Oh!’ cried Scott, as if suddenly remembering who Link was. ‘Yeah, he was the coon who—did I say something wrong?’

Mr. Shaw had turned to glare at his son and even Daddy looked alarmed.

Mr. Shaw bent down so that he was the same height as Scott, and began to hiss in his ear words that I was close enough to hear: ‘Don’t you ever say that word again, do you understand? Because if you ever do, I’ll know about it, and I’ll scrub your mouth out good and proper, understand?’

Scott rubbed his shoulder, ashamed. ‘I didn’t know it was _wrong_. That’s what they call Ryan in baseball practice and he’s OK with it.’

Mr. Shaw’s face softened. ‘Maybe he is, but it’s still a very offensive word. OK?’

‘OK,’ murmured Scott. ‘Sorry I called Mr. Lincoln a you-know-what.’

‘It’s OK,’ I replied quietly. ‘You didn’t know it was bad.’

Daddy let out a sigh of relief.

His and Mr. Shaw’s partnership all depended on whether I could get along with Scott, and everyone knew it—except for me.

The afternoon ended with a stint at the candy store, with bags full of caramels, chocolates and candy bars. ‘Let them run around the hotel,’ Daddy hissed to Mr. Shaw, laughing softly.

‘That’s easy for you to say when I’m bringing Scott home,’ Mr. Shaw joked back.

I chewed on a chocolate-covered mint on the way back to the car.

‘Don’t get candy on the seat,’ said Daddy sternly.

‘How was your meal?’ asked Link.

‘Very good, thank you,’ replied Daddy politely as Scott and Mr. Shaw climbed in the back seat. ‘We’re going to James’s house for a while.’

‘Aw _ri_ ght,’ said Link easily. ‘You guys look like you’re havin’ fun back there. How’s the candy, li’l lady?’

‘Good, thank you Mr. Lincoln!’ I chirped through a mouthful of taffy.

‘So much for dinner,’ I heard Daddy mumble from the front seat.

The rest of that night was a sugar-fuzzed blur for me—and probably for Scott too.

There’s one thing I remember, clear as day, from my sugar rush:

I asked Daddy for some quarters so I could call Mom. The telephone rang, three times until someone picked up. ‘Mom?’ I asked.

The voice on the other end was not Mom’s, but instead _Buckley’s_ , and it went, ‘Oh, _shit_ ,’ before it cut off. I tried again twice.

Nobody picked up.


End file.
